Worth of a Man
by storytellers
Summary: We never really know how important our decisions are until we decide to see what happens if we don't make them. Grantaire is about to discover just how much he is worth. The problem is, he is also about to lose everything he loves in the process.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Victor Hugo owns Les Miserables and I own very little.

**A/N:** I am very much aware of the fact that I should not be doing this. There are a million other fics that I have not finished so I should not be starting this at all. The only silver lining is that it won't be long. The thing is, I happened to watch Shrek 4 and Shrek and Fiona reminded me so hilariously of Grantaire and Enjolras that I couldn't resist. This brings me to a few important warnings: First of all THIS IS SLASH. There, said that. Second of all, this fic is essentially a fairytale so read it as such. It will have no regard for French history and relatively little regard for the book. I realize that when authors say that it's usually an excuse for bad writing. I have nothing to say to that except see for yourself how good or bad I am. Now on with a little first chapter.

_Paris__, 1832_

"… is not enough! We need more weapons. The time is drawing near to…"

There was a loud crash from across the room. Enjolras, irritated that his speech had been interrupted, shifted his gaze from the eager faces of the young revolutionaries to a certain table in the corner. There, a familiar drunkard who they had all assumed to be asleep was now suddenly on his feet. He surveyed his surroundings with wide eyes. There was a broken bottle of absinth on the floor next to him. He had knocked it over when he had woken up with a jolt, resulting in the noise which had caused Enjolras to stop in mid sentence.

The young leader glared at the mess on the floor and the person responsible and his face contorted in a grimace somewhere between anger and disgust.

"If you insist on being present at these meetings, winesack, you will kindly refrain from making yourself noticeable."

Grantaire blinked a few times as if genuinely surprised by the ferociousness of the comment. He seemed truly offended which was a novelty to the others. He normally remained unaffected by such remarks.

"Enjolras…? Where…? What are we all doing he- _Mon Dieu_, am I really back?"

There was a chuckle among the students.

"Yes, well, welcome back to our planet, friend," Feuilly greeted him merrily.

Enjolras, choosing to ignore the disturbance, turned resolutely back to face his audience.

"As I was saying…"

"What year is it?" Grantaire asked, once again interrupting.

There was a collective sigh. The leader of the ABC closed his eyes and a look of concentration appeared on his face, as if he was refraining from lashing out at what he considered to be an intruder to their meeting.

"It's 1832, Grantaire," Combeferre answered calmly, "and I really advice you not to interrupt anymore. Enjolras is not in the mood for it tonight. And you, Enjolras, save your anger for the barricade tomorrow."

"To- tomorrow?" Grantaire uttered. "But…"

Combeferre put a finger to his lips, silencing him.

Grantaire's eyes remained wide and astonished, as if he could not believe his predicament, but he slowly sank back to his chair without another word.

"_As I was saying_," Enjolras began again, "now that Lamarque is dead, the people of Paris will realize it's time to rise…"

Grantaire listened with an expression of utter bewilderment as plans of the upcoming revolution were laid, discussed and repeated. For as long as twenty minutes he stayed quiet. Then a seemingly innocent phrase from Enjolras seemed to pull him from a daze.

"Courage my friends! By this time tomorrow we will be at the barricade!"

"No!" Grantaire shouted, jumping up and this time overturning the table. "No, this isn't how it's supposed to go! You can't really think that you can start a riot now and be successful! It took us two more years to organize everything! Don't you remember?"

To his credit, Grantaire didn't shrink away when his blond Apollo crossed the room in wide strides to stand before him and grabbed his collar. Enjolras' face now expressed rage worthy of a Greek god.

"Out! Out of here, you worthless drunk! I am in no way obliged to listen to your pathetic ravings! Go home to sleep it off and leave us be."

"No, Enjolras, hear me out, I am not drunk! I have not been drunk in years!"

This caused another burst of laughter from the students. At the same moment Grantaire happened to look at his feet and when he saw them, he promptly dropped back into his chair. Shaking his head Combeferre stepped in, gently pushing Enjolras away and swinging Grantaire's arm around his shoulders to lift him up.

"Come, my friend. I'll take you home."

Grantaire wriggled free and backed away a few steps. He was evidently capable of standing on his own two feet but, judging by the disbelieving gaze he was directing at his shoes, that fact surprised him. He gave the room and the people in it one last wild look and exited the café in a rush.

Feuilly scratched his head.

"What's the matter with him?"

"The usual," Enjolras said dismissively. "His green fairy is making him hallucinate."

"It's strange though…" Combeferre muttered.

"What is?"

"Did you smell any alcohol on his breath?"

Enjolras thought about it.

"No. And I was inches away from his face. We must have gotten so used to the smell that we don't feel it anymore. Good riddance. Now come back to the table."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I'm still not Victor Hugo, therefore I do not own Les Miserables.

**Author's note:** Some slight changes were made to chapter one.

I just want to let you guys know that this is being written hastily and purely for fun. While I love Grantaire and Enjolras and I am certainly putting some effort into making this little fic interesting, I cannot at present devote too much energy to it. So forgive me if it's somewhat poorly written. And a lot of the chapters are awfully short but never mind that. Easier to read, no?

Also, from this chapter on, pay attention to the year at the beginning or you might get lost. :)

_Paris__, 1832_

Left. Right. Left. Right. The sensation of his muscles moving, the feel of cobblestones beneath his feet… How strange it was to walk again. Only now did Grantaire start to fully comprehend that he was indeed walking on his own. That this was no dream or, if it was a dream, it was a supernaturally vivid one.

He wondered if he was currently in shock and if that was what it was supposed to feel like.

He had woken up at the Café Musain which he knew to have been destroyed during the revolution. A revolution that had not only not occurred yet but was about to occur _the next day_. Two years earlier than he knew it should. It was indeed 1832. A paper he had found dropped on the street had confirmed it. It spoke of Lamarque's funeral. And if that had not been enough, he knew for a fact that the Enjolras he had seen tonight was not the one he knew back in 1836. That Enjolras had not called him a winesack in years and he would not have led his friends into such a suicidal rebellion.

While he had still been at the Musain two hours ago, during Enjolras' heated speech Grantaire's mind had gone into overdrive, conjuring and discarding a million theories. Maybe this was a dream. Maybe _that_ had been a dream. Maybe he was really drunk.

But he could not convince his brain that any of these were true.

He discovered that, while he had once found it awfully hard to believe in things like justice and equality, he was now finding it rather easy to believe in things like gypsy magic. That was a curious paradox but it didn't change the fact that the only explanation that seemed to ring true when he slammed it on the proverbial table, was that he had indeed walked into the past. And it was not even the past he remembered. Whenever he tried to tell himself that that was impossible, a voice and an image of white teeth flashing in a cheeky grin pierced Grantaire's mind like an ominous warning.

_You only have twenty-four hours before the change is permanent. _

No, it had to be a dream. But, even if it was dream, since he couldn't wake up, he had to go with what his mind accepted to be real. By logic, if he could remember exactly how he had gotten himself here, that might provide him with the answer of how to get out of this mess. And maybe then he would wake up.

He thought back to the last hours he had spent in what he believed to be reality.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Okay, you know what, I'll just stop putting those here, okay? The fact that I am not Hugo and I am making no money off this thing will remain true for all subsequent chapters.

**Author's note: **The next two chapters are actually written but I'm being evil and not posting them. I get a review, you get a chapter. :) And I'd like to direct your attention to the fact that this is a flashback. Um… But a flashback about the future. Oh, hell, I'm sure you'll figure out what happens when. Just read it.

_Paris__, 1836_

It had been a bad day. The threat of rain had hung in the sky since morning but not a drop had fallen yet. Grantaire didn't particularly mind rain but he found this dry gloomy weather awfully depressing. It did not seem to have a better effect on Enjolras either. His companion had been snappy all day. It was evident he could hardly wait for the Council of Ministers' meeting to be over so he could meet Combeferre and learn the newest developments.

Grantaire, as always, felt guilty. Enjolras should have been part of the Council. Hell, for all the popularity he had had after the Revolution, he could have become President! Instead, the very man who had made the republic possible was forced to suffer a self-inflicted house arrest because his partner had gotten injured enough to need daily care and company. Subsequently, said partner could not blame the blond for shouting at him on regular basis for not trying hard enough to get well. But it was easier said than done. For one thing, Grantaire could not make himself believe in the possibility that he would walk again. If it was to happen, it would have happened by now. It had been two years since the injury.

It made him feel useless but that was no novelty. There had been other times in his life when he had felt like there was not much point in anything. He knew how to survive them. But the worst part was that his condition was hurting Enjolras. The dashing, slightly grown-up boy/leader of the Revolution had turned himself into a nurse. He had refused to leave Grantaire's side and turned down a number of powerful positions in favor of staying home to take care of him. While this was deeply touching, it was not exactly what Grantaire had imagined their relationship would be.

They had had almost three years together before the Revolution. Three wonderful years in which things were slowly but surely snapping into place. Grantaire had been winning both his gory fight with the green fairy and a certain battle of wills he had started with Enjolras. Orestes, slowly and reluctantly, had started to show much more consideration to Pylades, provided that Pylades showed no consideration to the wine and absinth bottles.

Then, as Grantaire's criticism for Enjolras' carefully-laid plans had gradually become less mocking and more constructive, he had found himself more and more at the center of attention during meetings. Before long, he had turned into a sort of plausibility test for the students. They would run a certain idea through him and if he didn't manage to say it was one hundred percent silly, naïve and impossible to put to action, they would consider it brilliant. Enjolras had found himself in a position where it had suddenly become important for him to earn the cynic's approval of his schemes. It was no more a matter of ignoring the pathetic drunk who did not believe in their cause. It was a matter of convincing someone who was rational and clever enough to point out all of the gaping holes in their logic and support the point with both arguments and historical references. The young leader had found out that he was actually quite unused to dealing with opposition in ways other than ignoring it. And he had striven to remedy that. He had become so determined to come up with plans that would convince even his skeptic companion of their plausibility that any step he undertook was nothing short of foolproof. He had abandoned putting his faith in 'the people' in favor of training _certain_ people to the point of professionalism. He had started a number of secret revolutionary committees – first in Paris, then throughout France. They were devoted to finding weapons and training real fighters.

And so, unexpectedly, what Grantaire had initially considered a naïve dream had gradually grown into a fully organized revolution. And when the signal had been finally given, students, workers and other republicans had truly risen as one and formed an army. At that point even Grantaire had been convinced that the republic stood a chance.

And they had won.

Unfortunately, he had paid a price. A bullet had knocked him down from his position on the balcony of a building during the final battle. The bullet wound was long healed but the damage inflicted by the fall had left his legs paralyzed. Enjolras, along with Combeferre and Joly still did not want to lose hope. They prompted him to exercise regularly and to attempt walking. But Grantaire himself had never been one for empty hopes. Enjolras was really angry with him for it lately. He had barely spoken a word to him all day today. And now, after settling him at his favorite spot by the bedroom window, he had disappeared somewhere.

Grantaire looked through the window at the apple tree that grew outside. And, to his utmost surprise, he was greeted by the sight of a grinning face.

**End note:** Once again reminding you that this is a fairytale. Forget plausibility. And another reminder: sorry to be a review wh0re but reviews = chapters.


	4. Chapter 4

_Paris__, 1836_

The girl was around fifteen or sixteen and evidently a gypsy. She was straddling a thick branch and munching on an apple, meeting his gaze without a trace of fear, despite being caught in the act of stealing. That was fine with him – he had no intention of inspiring fear anyway.

"Good afternoon," he said and immediately had to suppress a chuckle. The look she was giving him was the next most amusing thing after Joly examining his tongue for signs of illness.

"Af't'rnun," she mumbled through a bite of apple. "You're not gunna get me arrested, are you?"

"For eating apples? Far be it from me to do such a thing. Especially in the time of the glorious Republic when none shall go hungry."

He mentally berated himself for not keeping the bitterness out of his voice. His personal problems were not the Republic's fault.

She chuckled.

"You always talk this funny? See here, I'll tell you a secret. I knew you wouldn't rat me out. That's why I take the apples from your yard. I know who you are. You were one of the big ones during the revolution weren't you? You and that other one. Where's he gone? I just saw him leaving."

"I wish I knew. Somewhere more interesting perhaps. I shouldn't have had tea for two served today."

The girl pursed her lips.

"'T is a bit of a pity you got him all for yourself. He's a real looker. I wish I could get me a man like that."

And he just might have been better off with you than me, Grantaire thought while blushing furiously. But, honestly, were they that obvious?

"No offence, Monsieur, I just got eyes, don' I," she amended quickly. "I like lookin' but wouldn't dream of going after him. 'T is plain as day he would show me the way. He's all about you. There's a lot that can be seen from this tree, you know. Again, no offence."

Luckily, Grantaire did not actually hear the last sentence. The girl's previous words had initiated a battle in his chest between pride and guilt.

"No offence," he asserted distractedly. "As a matter of fact…"

He paused for a moment, thinking. He was in need of company and none seemed to be coming his way in the near future. Would she steal anything if he invited her in? Was there anything valuable to be stolen? Did he even really care?

"Would you like to join me?" he asked finally. "I could tell the servant to let you in."

She shrugged.

"Don't mind if I do."

She descended the tree quickly while he called the servant and informed him that the young lady at the door was to be brought to him. A few minutes later she was sitting across him examining the flower pattern on her teacup.

"I'm a witch you know," she said out of nowhere.

He couldn't help but laugh.

"A witch? A good one or a bad one?"

"Are you asking about my magical abilities or about my character?"

"Maybe both."

"Then the answer to the first one is 'good'. The answer to the second one is always debatable."

"So you are a good witch of debatably good character. Aren't you a little young? I thought witches were old ladies."

"How do you know I am not an old lady in a fifteen-year-old body?"

He laughed.

"Valid point. What kind of magic do you do?"

"The usual. Only I do it a lot better than most. And sometimes with extras. I could see into your future."

He sighed bitterly.

"No thank you. I'm afraid it will be more of the same."

"How about your past or present?"

He chuckled.

"I already know what those are like. I was there in my past and I'm here now."

"Then how about a past or present you have not seen? There's more than one, you know."

"You want to tell me somebody else's past?"

"No. Yours. But an alternative one. Won't cost you a thing unless you decide to stay there. The deal is simple. I take you wherever you want to go and you get to stay there for twenty-four hours. During those twenty-four hours you will have a back door, a way of getting back. After the time is up, you remain stuck in the alternate life of your choosing. And I get… Let me see now… I get your house. How about that?"

Grantaire laughed again.

"Sounds awfully complicated. I thought you would just get out a deck of cards and ask me for a coin or two."

She rolled her eyes and straightened up, suddenly all business.

"Those are for amateurs. Now think of an event that you would rather not have happened."

"You know something funny? Lately I've been thinking that I would rather Enjolras had never fallen in love with me. You know, the other man who lives here. One day he had the stupidity to kiss me and declare he would stand by my side no matter what. I think that day just about ruined his life."

"So if there is a world where he doesn't make that promise, you would like to see what that world is like?"

Grantaire shrugged. Naturally, he was not taking the girl's talk of magic and time-travel seriously but theorizing about it felt surprisingly liberating. He could almost imagine a different world where Enjolras stood proud as head of the country and gave speeches in the same passionate and compelling fashion as before the revolution.

"Yes," he muttered. "He would probably be much happier."

"Tsk-tsk, aren't we altruistic…"

There was more than a hint of mockery in her voice.

"No. We aren't. If he's happier, I would be less unhappy. The worst thing in the world is watching someone you love suffer because of you."

"Gotta warn you 'bout something though. When you change one event, you normally change the whole chain of events that precede and succeed it. You don't want your man to declare his love? So he must not be in love with you. If he's not in love with you, it means you never did the things that made him fall in love. You go back to the day when he said the words but in a world where he doesn't say them everything before and after that day would be different."

"Well, that's exactly the point, isn't it? I wish he hadn't fallen in love. Do you know, he was a god before he started paying attention to me? He was untouchable. He was Apollo."

"Well, then. You'll see your Apollo again. But be careful. If you don't like what you see and you decide you want your old life, you will have the devil's own time getting it back. You will have to make your man fall in love with you again, kiss you and make that same sincere declaration of love all within the twenty-four hours. Otherwise, you're stuck. What do you say about that?"

Grantaire shrugged. How was he supposed to guess at his hypothetical reaction in a hypothetical situation that was absolutely impossible?

"Tsk-tsk," the girl said again. "Your current life is that bad, huh? Some people just don't learn a lesson until it's taught to them personally. Too bad that by that point it's often the last lesson they learn. Close your eyes then, Monsieur."

Grantaire closed his eyes, smirking a bit. He intended to open them again within the next few seconds to see the girl pocketing the silverware. Instead, darkness swallowed him and the next thing he knew, he was at the Musain and the year was 1832.

**End Note:** Any thoughts? Sorry for the fact that the next chapter is microscopic.


	5. Chapter 5

_Paris__, 1832_

At some point, lost in reminiscence, Grantaire had reached the river. He stopped and leaned on the rail of the bridge. He flexed his right hand and watched the fingers move. He took in the details of every fingernail before running his palm over the surface of the rail. Never in his life had he ever had a dream that was this consistent.

What if it was all real?

This thing Enjolras was planning for tomorrow… It would not be a revolution. It would not even be an uprising. It would be a bloodbath! Tragic, heroic and utterly inconsequential. They could not possibly win. Enjolras spoke of 'the people' but Grantaire knew what _people_ were like. They would be home, in their beds, trembling in fear while a bunch of young idealists died for them at the barricade…

And all of this because in this world Grantaire had never gotten involved in Enjolras' plans? All of this because he had remained a pathetic drunk, watching the object of his love from afar, rarely daring to speak to him face to face?

He could not believe he was worth that much. And yet… If it was true, he had just made a horrible mistake. Twenty-four hours, the girl had said. And only a sincere kiss and declaration of love could break the spell? It was ridiculous. He could not possibly make Enjolras fall in love with him for twenty-four hours. In fact, only twenty-one now. Even in his own reality, he still found it hard to believe he had managed it at all, even when he had had years to do it. The only thing he could do now was to try his best to stop Enjolras from getting to the barricade. Maybe with a little luck the others would not start a rebellion without their leader.

Grantaire started walking again and this time he had a direction.

**End Note:** Yes, I know, this chapter is practically non-existent but it was the best place to break off.


	6. Chapter 6

The look on Enjolras' face when he opened the door and saw Grantaire standing there would have been priceless in a less serious situation. Despite the late hour, the young man was fully dressed and even had his shoes on. It looked as if he had only just come home. The meeting must have gone on for quite a while.

"What in the world are you doing here? At this hour? Who gave you this address?"

You did, Grantaire thought, but you wouldn't believe me if I told you.

One night they had been so engrossed in their argument about something that, to his surprise, Enjolras had offhandedly suggested that Grantaire walk him home so they could finish the discussion. Grantaire couldn't remember what they had been arguing about but when they had reached the front door, Enjolras had surprised him by sighing theatrically and complaining in a childish voice: 'It was so much easier before you started demanding of me to be smart rather than brave.' Grantaire had, of course, told him in between laughs that he was both smart and brave. And then, on impulse, he had swung his arm across the boy's shoulders, pulled him nearer and gave him a quick kiss on the temple. It had been meant as nothing more than a friendly gesture but as soon as he had done it, he had regretted it. He had not wanted to overstep his boundaries and lose the fragile friendliness Enjolras had started treating him with lately. But instead taking offence, the blond had simply returned the one-armed hug and wished him goodnight with a smile, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. It had hit Grantaire then for the first time that the enigmatic young man he idolized was finally ready to accept him as a friend. Gone was the disgust, gone was the wall that seemed to separate their two worlds. Now he could touch his private Sun without being burned. And the best part was that he had earned it.

But from the Enjolras standing before him now, he apparently deserved nothing but contempt. And, as Apollo continued to fix him with a stare that clearly demanded explanation, Grantaire felt compelled to attempt one.

"I don't remember who gave me the address," he said, thinking that if he gave the name of one of their circle, that person would get the scolding of his life. A moment later it occurred to him that this was an odd thing to worry about in light of the upcoming revolution. He tried to gather his thoughts and put the hasty plan he had constructed into action. "I really need to talk to you. It's… something about tomorrow. Can I come in, please?"

Enjolras frowned, looking doubtful, but he stepped aside anyway. Anything that might concern the Revolution (however unlikely it was that Grantaire would hold useful information) had to be heard.

"Well?" the young leader asked impatiently as soon as he had closed the door.

"Well… You can't start the revolution tomorrow. The National Guard know about your whole plan. I heard two of them talking in a tavern tonight."

Enjolras froze on the spot, his expression unreadable. Grantaire imagined the heart in the proudly presented chest skip a beat, the teeth behind the pale pink lips clench and the cold shiver of fear ripple beneath the fair skin. He knew the leader of the revolution was capable of being afraid as much as anyone, regardless of how well he hid it. But the initial shock did not last long. The quick mind beneath the golden curls processed the information, analyzed it and apparently found something off about it because its owner now seemed more inquisitive than worried.

"What do you mean by 'the whole plan'? It is natural that they may suspect something happening during Lamarque's funeral…"

"No! They know everything in details! Where you plan on building the barricades, how many weapons you have… Everything!"

Enjolras' eyes narrowed doubtfully.

"And you heard them talking in a tavern?"

"Yes. They were so drunk that they weren't holding their tongues…"

"Seems to me that you were so drunk that you started hearing voices. You were already raving at the Musain tonight. I can only imagine…"

"I am not drunk! I told you! If I were as drunk as you suggest, how am I even standing?"

Enjolras hesitated for a moment. Then he slowly walked forward until he was standing directly in front of Grantaire, only a centimeter away. He was slightly taller, so Grantaire's brown eyes had to look up to meet a pair of vivid blue ones. Enjolras examined his face carefully. Grantaire could hear him hold each breath for a second, making sure there was no wine or absinth to be smelled outside of what would cling to a man's clothes from the air in a tavern. Finally, the blond stepped away.

"Either my senses are lying to me or you are. If you are drunk, I can't find any signs of it apart from the nonsense you've been talking all evening. If you are sober, you are consciously not telling me the truth. What were you doing in a tavern if not drinking?"

"I… Went there with the intention to drink but then I heard them talking and I came straight here."

"Which tavern?"

"The Turtledove."

"The Turtledove. Really?"

Grantaire hesitated. The marble statue was piercing him with a pair of sapphires again.

"Y-yes…"

Eyes suddenly flashing in anger, Enjolras grabbed the front of Grantaire's shirt.

"You're lying! I just came back from the Turtledove five minutes ago. I had a late meeting with one of our trusted men from the proletariat to go over some changes in the plans for tomorrow. There was no sign of you there. What are you after?"

"I don't want you to die! Any of you!" Grantaire blurted out, thrown off balance by the sudden attack.

Enjolras let go of him with an expression of such disgust that Grantaire almost expected him to wipe his hand on his pants.

"You're a cynic and a coward," the younger man said icily. "You have never known what it is like to fight for something, to have something worth dying for. Get out of here."

Grantaire knew he only had time for one final desperate idea. His eyes darted quickly around the room. They fell on the desk where a forgotten knife lay among a pile of the letters Enjolras had been opening with it. Grantaire grabbed it and pointed the blade to his own throat.

"If it must be life and death for you, it will be. Will you hear me out now?"

Enjolras stared at him in perfect astonishment.

**Author's Note:** This one was a bit stubborn. The chapter, I mean ;p How do you guys think this little situation will turn out?


	7. Chapter 7

It had been such a fantastically pathetic idea on his part! Grantaire stood now in the middle of the room, knife supposedly ready to pierce his aorta, and felt stupid. But what else could he have done? Taking no action would have meant admitting defeat. In addition, if he had pointed the knife at Enjolras himself, the student would have simply laughed. Or wrestled the knife from him. Or called for help. Or something to that effect. In any case, not a favorable outcome.

To tell the truth, Enjolras didn't look like he was really buying this comedy either. But there was just a shred of worry detectable in his eyes which gave Grantaire some hope. Even if that worry was only caused by the prospect having to explain the bloody corpse in his apartment…

No, come on, Grantaire!

Even he wasn't that much of a cynic. Here was the boy he loved. And who, in a reality that was starting to seem alarmingly distant and frail, had loved him back. He _knew_ Enjolras wasn't _really_ that indifferent to anything not connected to the revolution. He knew it… Didn't he?

In any case, the fact that he had inadvertently convinced the man that he was barking mad with his earlier ramblings was now playing in his favor. Perhaps if Apollo really believed he had lost his mind, his suicide threats would look more convincing. But he had to be very careful how he played this.

"Grantaire, give me the knife," the blond commanded calmly, after looking at him for half a minute with a mixture of mild surprise and heavy doubt, tainted with the tiniest bit of apprehension.

"No. You will listen to me."

"Give me the knife now. I don't have time for this."

"You have a whole night. Sit down, stay quiet for a while and hear what I have to say."

"Give me the damned… Oh, to hell with it!"

And this was the moment when Enjolras lost his temper and stepped forward with the intention of grabbing his arm.

And this was the moment when Grantaire decided to risk a small injury in the name of the greater good.

Saying a quick mental prayer, he pressed the blade harder and twisted it slightly. It pierced the skin on the left side of his neck. He winced and felt a trickle of blood run down from the cut, ruining his shirt. _Mon Dieu_, had he really just done that? The knife must have been sharpened recently, he observed. All the better. He wasn't sure he could actually handle trying to cut himself with a dull blade.

Thankfully, Enjolras recoiled and raised his arms in a universal gesture of surrender. He looked genuinely shocked. Ironic, really. Apparently, everyone were used to the fact that Grantaire the Drunk was slowly killing himself with his drinking but no one had entertained the idea that he might decide to end it a bit quicker. In reality, such a thought had indeed passed through his mind once or twice, on some truly miserable evenings. But that had been a long time ago and he had never even gotten close to acting on the idea. For one thing, he might have been pathetic but melodramatic he was not. For another thing… there were certain aspects of his persona he actually liked and he wouldn't have been able to rid the world of those in cold blood. Not even in the depths of despair.

Now though, he was dripping blood on his clothes and that seemed to be enough to hold the attention of his current audience.

"Very well. Very well then, Grantaire," Enjolras said with forced calmness once the initial surprise had worn off and he had found his voice. He took a few more steps back and sat on the bed. "You have something you want to say that you deem more important than your life. I am listening. And, incidentally… here." He tossed him a towel from a pile of clean ones that had been abandoned on the bed. "You don't want to bleed to death before you finish what you want to say."

Grantaire caught it and absently pressed it to his neck while he backed away in turn and made himself comfortable on the chair by the desk. He took the knife away from his throat but kept it ready in his hand. This way, should he try, Enjolras would not be able to take it from him before he could react.

_How_ he could possibly react was another question entirely.

He took a deep breath. Right. They were both positioned. Now, how was he supposed to tell the truth about what was going on here? If he himself was even sure he had not hallucinated that whole other life, that is… It was a chilling possibility and it was starting to present itself more and more often in his mind. Grantaire threw the notion out of his head hard enough to break its bones, had it been a living thing. His life with Enjolras _had_ been real! It _was_ real. It could _still_ be real, if he could only pull this off.

He rubbed his forehead tiredly and fixed his eyes on Enjolras again.

"You know how you talk about what life would be after the revolution?"

A nod.

"You imagine it so clearly, don't you? You can almost believe that perfect world exists."

Enjolras frowned, still not getting where this was going but nodded again.

"Well," Grantaire continued, "I want you to do the same thing now. To imagine a world that does not exist at this time but to believe that it could be real. In that world… There was once this young revolutionary leader and this slightly less young drunkard who happened to be endlessly fascinated with him. So far, not very different from what we have here. But, you see, in that world, one day the drunkard was accidentally sober enough to get really offended by something the young revolutionary said…"

**End Note:** Thanks to Sythar for being so fateful and BTW I am a great fan of Scaramouch and have been for a while so I promise I will actually take the time to leave proper reviews the first chance I get.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** Regarding first names, really at some point it becomes a little strange to write a love story without having your characters even think about what the object of their love is actually called. Thus, like in many other les Amis stories, you will eventually be subjected to a number of random French boy names the author likes. *shrug*

_Paris__, 1831, in the universe Grantaire takes for real_

"This is why I always make sure to be drunk", Grantaire reminded himself out loud as he lay on his bed, waiting for his headache to subside. "Because when I'm not drunk, bad things not only happen but I notice them happening."

It would all have been fine if he had consumed his usual amount of wine before subjecting himself to the terror and glory of Enjolras' anger. But as it were, Grantaire had been a little short on money that day and he had had very little to drink when Enjolras had started the meeting.

He didn't need to listen carefully in order to make cynical remarks. It was all the same anyway. Honour and duty and the people and the glorious Republic. Words not meant for his ears. It was enough that he could marvel at the otherworldly glow that speaking of said Republic seemed to bestow upon his Apollo. So, on any other night, the young leader's speeches would have been little more than background noise to him.

This time however, as his mind had not been cloudy from the wine, he had actually listened to the latest great plan for getting weapons. And he had found a particular flow in it. His mouth had spoken before he even knew it.

"Wait a moment, Enjolras. You can't trust Baret with this. I know the man. Not a bad fellow but you can't even rely on him to get you exactly what you ordered in his tavern, let alone keep watch while there is something as dangerous as a transfer of guns going on."

"No one asked your opinion, winesack."

The reprimand had been absent-minded, like Enjolras had not even heard what he had said. Apart from the fleeting spark of anger that had appeared in the blue eyes before they had lowered again to the piece of paper they had been examining, it was almost like he hadn't noticed the extra man in the corner. Such neglect wasn't anything new and Grantaire, with the aid of the green fairy, had grown mostly numb to it. But sometimes he did feel the sting. Usually when he didn't manage to get drunk fast enough. There would be a sharp stab of pain instead of the tolerable dull ache that was his constant companion and he would be fully aware of how much he disliked being treated like that. Even by Apollo.

That night had been one of those occasions but he had refused to give up that easily.

"Hey, Apollo," he had tried again, "For real, old Baret ain't your man for this. Can't be trusted with the task."

This time Enjolras' eyes had stayed on him longer. The student had stood from his table and made a few steps towards him.

"And whom should I trust with it? You? _You_ have failed to do anything and everything I have ever asked of you."

"True, Apollo, but that doesn't mean that _he_ won't," Grantaire had said timidly, trying to make his idol see his genuine concern for les Amis' safety. "See, that's exactly what I mean – he is like me."

Enjolras had shaken his head.

"He is nothing like you. He doesn't pass out on tables from too much wine. He doesn't mock those above him without seeing that he is the biggest mockery of all. Baret believes in the Republic."

"So he is less of a drinker and more of a dreamer than I am. But he will get distracted from his task just as easily. He'll be putting you all at risk."

"Not another word from you! You are speaking of a man who, by merely agreeing to take part in this operation, has done more for the people than you have in your entire life! You have _no right_ to speak ill of him."

"_Mon Dieu_, Adrien, this is not about right! You will be putting yourselves in danger because of such a silly mistake!"

Grantaire, for the first time in a long while, had been very near exasperation. The great Apollo had been acting so much like a stubborn child that it would have been funny if it hadn't been serious.

Enjolras had stared at him as if he had turned into something ugly with fangs and horns. Of course, given the way Enjolras usually looked at him, there had not been that much of a difference.

"My Christian name is only for my friends to use," he had said icily. "And my mistakes are only for my friends to point out and discuss."

That had stung. The words hadn't been unexpected but the venom behind them...

At that point Combeferre's gentle hand had been laid on his blond friend's shoulder.

"Judging by everyone's looks, _mon ami_, your friends think Grantaire might have a point. We don't know Baret that well but if _he_ does and if what he says is true…"

Bless Combeferre for always standing on the side of reason. Enjolras had held his lieutenant's eyes for a moment and nodded curtly.

"Fine then. We will ask Depaul to stand guard and make Baret carry the cases instead. If that suits Monsieur the Critic."

He had raised his eyebrows mockingly at Grantaire who had only looked at him sadly.

"Even sarcasm looks well on such fine marble," he had said quietly and left the Musain.

He had found the first tavern on his way and spent the money he should have kept for food on getting himself completely wasted.

On this particular occasion that had not helped. He now had a hangover but his recollection of the incident was perfectly clear.

It had been too much on Enjolras' part, too much! He had attacked him for no reason. And in such a childish manner too… Although, seeing a glimpse of that child had been precious. Grantaire was sure it had been the reason for him suddenly calling Enjolras by his given name. He had only heard that name once, when they had first been introduced, but he had remembered it and, on this occasion, it had simply slipped his tongue. Adrien… Damn the man for having such power over him! He was supposed to be angry at being insulted for nothing. Instead, he was melting into a puddle.

And on top of all, he felt ridiculously and irrationally jealous of Baret. So what? All you had to do was shout _Vive la France_ every once in a while and you were on Enjolras' good side, regardless of all else?

No, the boy was not really so short-sighted in his dealings with anyone else. Only when it came to Grantaire did he suddenly turn into a Greek deity not only in looks and charisma but in prejudice and lack of tolerance as well. What had he ever done to merit such hatred from someone he openly admired? Did he really deserve this for having seen what he had seen of life and being unable to believe in much anything?

And, just like that, Grantaire had a goal. If he would never obtain Enjolras' love or friendship, he would at least earn the right to be heard when he was talking sense. Of course, for that to happen, he would have to talk sense a bit more often. Maybe only drink after he parted with les Amis from now on…

He went to the next meeting sober and only touched a glass after he left the Musain.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** God, this fic is confusing! The constant change of time and place should be giving you epilepsy by now but… oh, well.

This is just a small intermediate chapter before we continue with the past that belongs to the future that Grantaire comes from. *looks at sentence* Wow.

_Paris, 1832, the reality Grantaire is trying to change_

"All right… I still don't understand what your point is. This never happened. So you are convinced I would have ignored any sensible advice from you, had you ever given it? Is this story meant to make me feel guilty? Or is it some unusual kind of apology? You wish you had behaved yourself better at meetings so you have come up with this whole other world where you do?"

Enjolras was staring at him with slightly puzzled, slightly cautious and very impatient blue eyes. He had not moved an inch from where he had sat on the edge of the bed when Grantaire had started his tale. Grantaire sighed.

"No. It is not meant to make you feel guilty. As for an apology… There are a lot of things I am sorry for doing but the biggest of them all will make no sense to you at present. So just keep listening. I am not done yet."

"Are you going to waste my whole night?"

"It has been fifteen minutes, Enjolras! It won't kill you to give me the time of day for once… Or the time of night, for that matter," he added after a small pause. "Even where I come from, you rarely do that anymore…"

Enjolras blinked at him.

"Pardon?"

"Forget that. The point is, how are you going to lead a revolution if you have the patience of a little child?"

The student seemed caught off-guard by the tirade, half of which he had not completely understood. But the irritated tone didn't seem to anger him. In fact, it had the opposite effect. The blue eyes filled with something akin to curiosity and even a tiny, imperceptible hint of approval.

It reminded Grantaire terribly of _his_ Enjolras. Whenever _his_ Enjolras had witnessed the seemingly indifferent cynic get riled up about something, he had given him this encouraging look and muttered quietly: 'There you are'. And Grantaire felt like a pupil who had just recited a complicated lesson without mistake. By his companion's own words, he enjoyed seeing that spark of anger so much because where there was fire, there was hope. And light. And life. There were times when Grantaire found it a little hard to think of himself as filled with those things but the 'there you are' always perked him up. If only he could hear it now, from the perfect lips of the man sitting across from him…

"Am I seeing a glimpse of the Grantaire from your story?" the Enjolras of here-and-now asked instead. "The one who supposedly took his life into his own hands? I wish I'd seen that. And the way you were going with it, you could have said he stopped getting drunk altogether, not only at meetings. Or is alcohol so dear to you that you can't give it up even in an imaginary setting?"

"It takes a lot for a drunk to part with the glass."

"I imagine it does or I would have managed to make you do it long ago."

"Oh, but you see, you can't make someone stop drinking. The best you could hope for is making him make himself stop drinking..."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** Concerning Grantaire's job, I realize this is a bit of a lazy solution but it has little to do with the story. The man obviously got an education and quite a lot of it so I'd say it's not so far-fetched that he would somehow use that to his advantage. What did he study? I would put my money on philosophy. Then why is he working for a lawyer? Because I'm uninventive. And because I can't imagine what kind of work someone like him would be doing with what he learned in his classes. Just accept that what he does now only requires very good literacy, some intelligence and a little training.

_Paris, 1831, the universe Grantaire accepts for real_

Sober or not, it took Grantaire a while to work up the courage to make a suggestion during a meeting again. He now knew he could count on some support from Combeferre at least, if what he wanted to say made sense, but he was still reluctant to bear the humiliation of offering honest help and being told-off for it. So, sobriety aside, for the next few meetings, he stuck to the old scenario. He still made the usual comments that would be expected from a cynic among idealists. Enjolras still glared daggers at him and pierced him with a few chosen words when he dared mock the Revolution or the Republic or the People. And, God help him, he could not stop mocking those. But this time he was listening and listening carefully. And analyzing. And counting specific flaws in their fearless leader's logic. And everyone _did_ notice that he wasn't drinking in their presence anymore.

And, to Grantaire's secret surprise and delight, Apollo did not bestow his wrath upon him when he finally dared to point out something wrong with the ABC's latest great conspiracy. Although, he didn't agree there was a hole in the plan either. Instead, he argued his point. And Grantaire, now having put himself in the spotlight, had no choice but to argue back. To tell the truth, he felt secretly proud that he was suddenly deemed worthy of arguing with.

Maybe it was only because Enjolras did not want to undermine his own authority among his friends. After all, last time they had seemed to be leaning more towards Grantaire's side.

This theory was reinforced when, after a few rounds Enjolras came up with an alternative option, straightened up, brushed his golden curls away and nodded curtly.

"Yes, I think this will work better. Thank you."

There was a coldness in his voice and Grantaire had a very good idea what it was due to. Enjolras was a bright man. Bright enough not to make the same mistake twice. After Combeferre had corrected him last time when he had ignored reasonable advice, this time he was willing to listen. But that did not mean he had to start liking someone who still did not believe in their cause.

Grantaire realized he wanted to throw something at the wall. Or at least retreat to his corner and sulk. He fought the urge. He had no right to feel disappointed. This was what he had bargained for. He had wanted the right to speak without being rebuked and he had gotten it. There was even a bonus. Combeferre was pointedly offering him a chair at their table. He didn't know if he should take it. A part of him craved to be one of them but he knew he wasn't. By sitting among these boys, young and full of hope, wasn't he risking making himself look even worse by comparison?

In the end, he decided this was far too much melodrama for an empty chair to inspire and took the seat.

He soon discovered it had been the right decision. It turned out that what Enjolras had needed in order to accept him was a little more time and persistence. The arguments got progressively friendlier and the plans they argued about got progressively more elaborate and well thought-out. The boys started commenting that it was proving healthy to have a skeptic in their midst. And on one faithful day Enjolras voiced his agreement to that claim and gave him a pat on the back. Grantaire almost fell off his chair. Then came that night when they had walked together to Enjolras' apartment and he had discovered for certain that they were now friends. It was the biggest victory he had held in his life.

At the same time, like Grantaire had feared, hope was proving to be a double-edged sword. It had been so much easier to dream of something that was as far away as the stars! There was certain peace that came with the knowledge that what you wished for was unobtainable. It saved you from the need to fight for it. But when you dreamed of something that was barely out of reach and you could almost make yourself believe that if you stretched just a little farther… Such thoughts didn't help him at all. He was afraid that if he crossed the line, if the object of those dreams started feeling uncomfortable around him, he would end up in a place much worse than where he had started. The bottom line was that being near Enjolras was becoming increasingly hard and, as a result and despite appearances, Grantaire's drinking was becoming worse. The difference was that he now only drank at home as means of preventing himself from spilling some secret and putting his friends in danger. He didn't think he would do it anyway but one could not be too careful. Not now when Enjolras actually trusted him.

It felt like falling the whole time. He was neither here nor there. He had let go of the safety rope but his feet had not found the ground. He was not the pitiful drunken mess in the corner anymore but he was not a revolutionary either. And now he drank until he was too confused to be confused anymore. That took a lot of wine and absinth and at one point it became too much. The hangovers were bad enough to sometimes prevent him from going to work. Sobering up before a meeting was becoming increasingly hard.

He was lucky old Voilquin was happy to let him do some of the work at home. There was not too much of it anyway and Grantaire sometimes even wondered if the old lawyer only took cases so he would be able to provide _him_ with pay. For some unfathomable reason, he had taken a liking to Grantaire back in the years when a slightly younger version of him had attended the university and had refused to let go of that liking when the clever and robust student had turned into a bitter old drunk in the body of a still-young man. Voilquin had been recently encouraged by the more cheerful disposition his clerk seemed to have adopted. But, much like Enjolras, he was largely unaware of the price Grantaire was paying for those hours of normalcy. The more time he tried to spend sober, the more he drank afterwards. He felt like he was trying to contain two people in one body and he had to choose only one. He knew which one he liked better but becoming that person entirely seemed impossible. Much like the Republic he could still not make himself believe in.

Sitting at his home alone one night, with an unopened bottle of absinth in his hands, he thought of that other man. The one who had just discussed philosophy with Combeferre an hour ago. The one who had once dared tell a pouting Enjolras that he looked like a sulky little schoolgirl and only gotten a playful punch in the arm for it. The one whom Enjolras _smiled _at and _called a friend_.

… And the one who changed back into the pathetic drunk as soon as he came through the door of his home. He shuddered to think what his Apollo would say if he could see what he did to himself every time after they parted.

One chance, he decided. He would give himself one chance. He could do that, couldn't he? Earning Enjolras' respect had seemed impossible too but he had done it. So why not at least give _not_ drinking a try? It was not like he had much choice anyway. If he kept going like this, he would soon find himself dead in a dumpster.

Not giving himself time to change his mind, he threw the still unopened bottle at the wall where it shattered, leaving a green stain.

Not a moment later he was already laughing at the stupidity of such an act. He got up, cleaned the glass and sent a massage to his employer that he was sick. Then he sat down with a book and waited for his body to realize he wasn't giving it its usual dose and for all hell to break loose.

A few hours later, it did.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the relatively long absence, it was the usual going-back-to-university craze. Here's a little chapter to keep you busy. Don't worry, children, the next one is ready and much longer but I believe too much candy will rot your teeth so let's make you wait a little, shall we? Sorry for any mistakes or weird sounding sentences, I don't have the time or energy to properly proof-read and if I don't keep posting, I'll never finish it. This is currently my funfanfic and its sole purpose is to keep me sane while I try to go through Junior Honors so bear with me. :)

_Paris, 1832, the universe Grantaire is trying to change_

Enjolras was frowning at him, eyes narrowed in speculation.

"Wait… Where is this going? Are you trying to tell me that you have decided to stop drinking? Or that you _will_ stop if I act… more nicely?" The last was said almost sarcastically. "Because this is hardly the time for it and I don't care about your bad habits. The destiny of all of us is being decided tomorrow!"

"You're right about that one," Grantaire muttered almost inaudibly.

"Your personal problems, or mine or anyone's are of no consequence. The People…"

"The People?" Grantaire interrupted. "What does that even mean, Enjolras? The People is made up of persons. Everybody's personal problems are of consequence. Not to be a philosopher (although, huh, would you believe it, I actually am) but sometimes it's little things that run our lives, _mon ami_. All of those boys you are going to lead into battle tomorrow, don't they matter to you as individuals? Combeferre? Don't you care about Combeferre? Your faithful second-in-command? The man who believes in progress above all, who is always ready and willing to help whoever needs it and who can, through science, help so many? Don't you think he will be worth more alive than dead? How about Prouvaire? One of the few proofs that there is still any gentleness and beauty left in this world. Beautiful things are too precious and rare to let die, Enjolras. Then Courfeyrac and Bahorel. They are the epitome of health and youth. What could possibly be more tragic than taking the life from someone who loves it so much?"

Enjolras had jumped to his feet and was pacing the room like a restless lion in a cage. Grantaire could see for once that his words were making an impact and was determined to continue.

"Feuilly has been through enough. He deserves to live in a brighter world not die for the idea of one. The courage he is showing by just being the man that he is with what little Fate has had to offer is more than can be demonstrated at any barricade. Bossuet? He has taken enough hits in his life and taken them with a smile. He doesn't need a bullet hitting him on top of everything else. And Joly? Can you really imagine Joly as a fighter? There is no way he could survive. And what good will his death do to anyone? But if he lives, who knows. Can't you imagine him growing, developing, overcoming his hypochondria, becoming a real doctor? Why would you want to take that chance away from him? And you… You, Adrien, you… If you go to that barricade tomorrow, you will never become the man you were meant to be."

Enjolras stopped to look at him.

"And what man is that?"

Grantaire didn't hesitate. The words were coming easily now. They were words he had spoken before but forgotten. He had lost their meaning somewhere but it was coming back now and filling him with a kind of energy he had not felt in a long time. He now remembered why he had said those words the first time. This was his role. His and his alone. No one could play it better. No one would even try.

"A man who sees further than tomorrow," he answered. "Someone who can live as a hero rather than just die as one. Someone who can really build a republic rather than just a barricade. Someone who understands human nature as much as politics. Someone who has learned that 'friend' is not always the same as 'comrade in arms'. Someone who really cares about people rather than plans and that makes him a great leader."

Enjolras looked at him silently for a little while.

"I've never heard you speak like that," he said finally.

"You've never heard me speak of things I care about."

"I thought you didn't care about anything."

"I care about all of you."

The icy stare lingered on him indecisively before melting to a warmer blue.

"There you go. I knew there was some kind of spark somewhere in there. Which is why… I'm sorry for this."

Before Grantaire could react, Enjolras lunged for the hand which was still holding the knife and wrestled it from his fingers. In the process, Grantaire's chair flew backwards and his head hit the ground. The world swung on its axis and burst in an explosion of colourful spots. Then there was nothing.


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note:** A special shout-out to Sythar and TW whose writing makes my day. Whoever isn't reading Captain Scaramouche should go and do it. And by the way, don't get me wrong, I love a slightly evil Enjolras. I'm just taking it upon myself to restore the balance of the world by giving you a slightly pleasanter version of him ;).

_Paris, 1832, the universe Grantaire is trying to change_

When Grantaire woke up, he quickly noticed several things. First of all, Enjolras was still there, which was good. In fact he was more than just there. He was practically on top of him, in the process of settling him on the bed. Yet another thing which would have been funny under different circumstances. Second and third, his head hurt like nobody's business and his hands were tied behind his back, which was not good.

Enjolras was sitting on the edge of the bed now, leaning on the wall with one hand and pushing a pillow under his head with the other.

You're too close, Grantaire thought. Too close for comfort. I can almost imagine we are back home. And if I start thinking about that I'll lose my mind.

Enjolras, still focused on the pillow, had not noticed his gaze. Grantaire calculated that with a minimal effort he could actually kiss him right now. But it wouldn't work, would it? He rather doubted anyone's unconscious form was able to miraculously and instantaneously inspire true love, with the possible exception of Sleeping Beauty whom he most certainly was not.

Then the blue eyes moved a little to the left and met his.

"You're awake." There was both relief and apprehension in the statement. "Do you know where you are?"

"The answer 'in your bed' sounds rather strange, doesn't it?" Grantaire replied, raising an eyebrow. Actually, it didn't sound strange to him but that was in another world.

Here and now though, he thought he saw the pale pink lips of his companion twitch upwards for a fraction of a second. Enjolras was not _quite_ as insensitive to crude jokes as he let on.

"Do you remember how you got here?" the blond asked, quickly erasing any traces of a smile.

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Then I suppose I can conclude that you are not seriously injured."

"Only my pride. I should have seen that coming."

He really should have. And now he had to come up with a way to get out of this mess really quickly.

"What now?" he asked with almost convincing nonchalance.

"Now, it is almost morning. As soon as it becomes light outside, I will be gone. I will arrange for someone to come and release you later when I am sure you will not get in the way of my plans."

"Meanwhile you'll let me starve in here?"

"Don't be ridiculous, it takes more than a day to starve. I'll send someone as soon as the barricades arise. But if you haven't eaten, I suppose I can offer you something now."

"How am I going to eat with my hands tied?"

"I will feed you if I have to. I am not untying you."

_You used to do that in the hospital, after the last battle._

It was strange how Grantaire had always considered that to be a painful memory but when he thought about it now… It wasn't the worst time he had ever had.

At first he had been unable to move at all and Enjolras had stayed glued to his side, going out of his way to make sure his companion's ingrained cynicism didn't turn into depression. Grantaire was certain the head of the ABC had never made so many jokes in his life as he had made in those two months. But he had also never seen the young leader so scared. There was, of course the usual composed, ever confident and slightly snappish exterior. But there were also uncertain glances, unneeded apologies for trivial things and parting hugs that lingered a little too long. Grantaire noticed them all and was reminded yet again that young men were not made of marble after all.

During that time they amused themselves by composing ridiculously extravagant dinner meals that Enjolras sometimes crossed half of Paris in order to obtain. But whatever phantasmagorical dinner they came up with, there was one thing always present…

"Raspberries…" he whispered quietly, smiling a little.

"Pardon?"

"Raspberries. Your mother used to get you raspberries when you were ill. It was the only thing you would eat. They always made you feel better."

Enjolras recoiled as if burned, fixing him with an astonished blue stare.

"How… How do you know that?"

"You would never believe me."

"Another one of your stories?"

"I'm afraid so. They're all I can offer right now."

Enjolras considered this for a moment, glanced at the clock on the wall and finally nodded.

"I suppose I can hear it. It's too late for sleeping anyway."


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note:** Public Service Announcement: Unlike with other drugs, alcohol withdrawal really CAN kill you and trust me, you don't want to know the meaning of the words 'delirium tremens'. So, my point is, despite the fact that R is a drunk and we all love him, no one should ever allow themselves to get to this point. I'm sure all of you already knew that, just decided to be socially active today ;P

And also, this chapter is gift-wrapped with a ribbon: (ЭоЕ) Sorry I couldn't find the purple one ;)

_Paris, 1831, the universe Grantaire accepts for real_

It had been after midnight when he had made his decision to remain sober. His body had started protesting around dawn. He somehow got through the day by picking books from his small library and discarding them on page five. He forgot to eat and, even if he had remembered, he probably wouldn't have been able to. He was now really glad he had broken the absinth bottle because there was no way on Earth he could have resisted the temptation to drink it.

He glanced at the dirty window. It was getting dark again. Literally and metaphorically. Grantaire was trying to decide if staying sober was more important than his life. Because any moment now he would either have to go out and find some alcohol or commit suicide to prevent himself from doing so.

Man, but this was bad!

He had gotten this far into withdrawal once before, shortly after he had first met Enjolras. He had not managed to go any further. At this point getting your hands on a glass felt as essential as taking the next breath.

He tried to tell himself that last time had been a fail because he hadn't been prepared. Not to mention that he had been doing it for the sole purpose of being liked by one human being. Or rather, a celestial being who, he had been half-convinced, would not like him anyway.

And here was the other part of the reason why he hadn't managed to stop. He had been scared. Scared that the drinking might not have been responsible for Enjolras' low opinion of him after all. And if alcohol was something he could give up, cynicism he could do nothing about. It wasn't up to him. He couldn't make himself not see the world as it was. And since there wasn't much hope of the world itself changing to accommodate him... If it had been his very character that Enjolras despised so much, that meant that he could have remained completely sober, never drunk a drop of alcohol again, and it would still not have warmed the marble statue. Then Grantaire would have had to face the fact that he was unwanted even without the excuse of being constantly drunk, and that would have been a little too much.

It was different now, or so the very tiny optimistic part of his brain tried to convince him. This time it wasn't because of Enjolras. He was doing it for himself. The _other_ himself. The one he was reasonably fond of. It was easier to think of _him_ as some other man and not an aspect of his own personality. Because how does one sit and take stock of his own favorable traits without feeling ridiculous? The voice of the cynic was ever present and, to his utter surprise, he was beginning to understand how Enjolras probably felt in his company. To have your every hopeful thought shot down was a lot worse when you actually _had_ hopeful thoughts.

Still, that _other_ Grantaire…

He was smart.

_And w__hat good have smarts ever done to anybody? Especially to you. Thinking only leads you to unpleasant conclusions, doesn't it? And there is a tavern just a couple of streets away that has the cure for that disease._

He was helpful to the ABC, albeit in an unusual way.

_You're helping them plan their own __funeral. Well done indeed, R. And when they're all gone, you'll drink yourself to death as well._

He didn't smell of alcohol and bitterness when he was that other person.

_So what? It's not like anybody is dying to get close enough to you for it to matter.__ Except for Mlle The Green Fairy. She's always been your best friend._

No, they did allow him close now! Even Enjolras.

_He doesn't care about you. Only what good you might be able to do __for his precious Cause. _

Well, that was better than despising him… But would it ever be enough?

He hated himself for wanting more. He knew he had done nothing to deserve it, he was convinced he would never get it, and yet the craving never seemed to go away. Why couldn't he ever just be happy with what he had? A lot of men in his situation or worse seemed to manage it well enough.

_A lot of stupid men who don't really see how pathetic their lives are. Ignorance is bliss. That's why you love your bottle so much. The only hope you can allow yourself is that if you __drink enough, you might reach that state. And even that never works…_

Who was he kidding anyway? This _was_ because of Enjolras.

Wasn't it?

He didn't know anymore. The Man of the People had been the center of his life for so long now that he didn't even know if there was any Grantaire without Enjolras.

Which reminded him… Damn. There was a meeting tonight. He was supposed to be there. He had said he would be.

And here it was. He had let Enjolras down again.

Would he get very angry? Would he understand if Grantaire tried to explain?

But that would mean confessing that he had been getting drunker and drunker lately, instead of staying sober as he had led them all to believe. Enjolras would probably never speak to him again for that…

He was so tired… Tired of worrying, tired of trying to stay sober, tired of hoping. There had been a reason for him to start drinking in the first place, hadn't there? What had really changed since then? This had all started because he had gotten angry one evening and decided he deserved at least a little respect. Hah! Respect. It was laughable. Respect for what? It all looked hopelessly silly now. What had ever possessed him to believe he could be anything but a toad watching the birds from his very small pond and laughing at them for having wings to fly?

And, honestly, even if there was a point to this, even if he could, perhaps, be something better if he managed to remain sober… He didn't think he could do it.

_A __bottle or two and it will all go away. The weakness in your limbs and the headache and the nausea and the fever and the depression and the illusion that the wall is covered in cockroaches. Although that last one just might be true, considering the neighborhood. Just… one… bottle…_

He stood up shakily.

Could he even get himself out the door and into a tavern? His rational mind suggested that it would be better if he couldn't. The rest of him screamed in horror at the thought of not being able to get a drink.

There was a knock on the door. He stared at it dumbly. Who in the world…? Whoever it was, they'd better have a wine bottle with them.

That, as it turned out, was even more unlikely than it sounded. At his doorstep stood no other than the God of Sobriety himself and his fateful lieutenant. Grantaire blinked in confusion, for a moment completely certain that he was hallucinating. But here they were – the Golden Boy with his bright blond curls almost glowing in the dirty second-hand light of the shabby hallway and the Scholar, reflecting that same light with the pair of spectacles he was holding, as if he was trying to somehow purify the few dusty sunset rays that managed to reach here.

"Uh… Hello," Grantaire managed with some difficulty, painfully aware of the fact that he was staring but unable to help it in his current state. What in God's name were they doing here? The meeting was not even supposed to be over yet.

For a moment he felt his stomach sink. Had he done something wrong? Was it possible that he had somehow gotten out of his house last time he had gotten drunk and spilled all of their revolutionary secrets to the police?

No, of course not!

Then was it possible that Enjolras was so angry with him for not fulfilling his promise to make an appearance tonight that he had wanted to berate him right away? In the middle of a meeting? Not likely at all.

"You didn't show up at the Musain and no one seemed to know why," Combeferre said by way of explanation. "We were worried."

Worried? Yes, of course they were worried, you idiot. They are your friends so stop being cynical and cut them some slack.

"'m sorry," he mumbled. "Fellin' a bit under the weather today. Should've sent someone to tell you but… forgot."

He flinched at the look Enjolras shot him.

"How does one forget something like that? We talked about this meeting just yesterday!"

"Give it a rest, Adrien," Combeferre said in an odd voice. "He really doesn't look good."

If he looked anything like he felt, this was the understatement of the year. He was sweating, his hands were shaking, his head hurt like hell and he was trying not to think of the stories he had heard about drunks actually dying while being forcefully removed from alcohol.

Enjolras was frowning deeply.

"How come you are suddenly sick? I just saw you yesterday evening. And how come you didn't let us know you had to stay home? _What _is going on here? Are you… Are you drunk?"

Suddenly and completely unexpectedly, Grantaire's temper flared and he found himself shouting in the blond's face.

"No! No, I am not drunk! Is that what you came here to ask me? God damn it, Apollo, is that all you ever care about? No, I am not drunk but I very much wish I were! It's the only way to deal with you!"

_Oh, God, what in Heaven's name am I saying?__! _

Enjolras gave him a level look and, without warning, stepped past him into the apartment. Grantaire, who had quickly run out of steam and now prayed for the floor to swallow him, followed the student's gaze to the green stain that still adorned the wall. A few small pieces of glass that he had neglected to sweep away glittered underneath it. Enjolras' eyes lingered on them for a few seconds before taking quick stock of the rest of the room. Then their owner turned on his heels and was out the door and gone from sight in a matter of seconds.

Grantaire swallowed the urge to call after him. He made his way to the bed, sat on it and dropped his head in his hands. Combeferre who had watched the whole scene from the hallway came into the room, closed the door and stopped, uncertain.

"Are you all right?"

A dark chuckle.

"Just fine," Grantaire answered in an oddly calm voice. "He'll never look at me again, you know. Won't even let me near."

Incredibly, the young doctor laughed at that.

"Really, now! I would give Adrien a little more credit than that. Here's something that never ceases to amaze me – how can you admire him so much if you think he is completely heartless?"

"I don't think he's heartless. I think he has a point."

"For God's sake, Grantaire! He's not _trying_ to make a point! He cut a meeting short today because he was worried something had happened to you. So was I, for that matter, so I was more than happy to oblige him. But when do you think was the last time Enjolras cut a meeting short? Never! So you can stop moping now. Melodramatic self-loathing doesn't become you. And really, it's out of place. We're all grateful for what you've been doing for us."

"You're right. Melodramatic self-loathing is even more irritating than cheerful self-loathing which used to be my thing. But I need at least one bottle of wine in my system for that."

"You are purposefully ignoring what I am trying to say."

"No. I heard you. You've found some use for me. Glad to be of service. I really am, no sarcasm intended. Unfortunately I can't keep doing it. I _need_ to drink. And perhaps Enjolras would have continued to care if it had turned out I was unable to attend the meeting after getting injured in a fight with a member of the National Guard while shouting _Vive la Republique!_ But his affections are not so easily wasted on pathetic drunkards unable to keep their promises."

"Enjolras doesn't need one more Bahorel, thank you. One is more than sufficient. And… You're trying to stop, aren't you? That's why you're in this state."

"Doesn't matter anymore. I can't do it. I'll die if I don't drink something. If I can get myself upright, I'm going straight to a vineyard in the next five minutes. So, you see, Enjolras is right. This winesack is a lost cause."

Combeferre sighed heavily and Grantaire looked away. He didn't think he could stomach the pity in the other man's eyes right now.

"What makes you think Enjolras considers you a lost cause?"

"Otherwise he would still be here, wouldn't he?"|

The next thing that happened would have been appropriate in a theatre play and Grantaire briefly wondered if he might have been dropped into one without knowing. Right on cue, there were footsteps in the hallway, the door swung open and there he was – Adrien Enjolras, all sunshine and impatient energy.

"You wouldn't believe how hard it was to find a cab in this neighborhood. Come on, out we go. Combeferre, we'll drop you off on the way. Do you need help?"

The last question was directed at Grantaire who could only blink. Combeferre sighed.

"I think our friend here is still under the impression that you are angry with him."

There was silence. Grantaire risked looking up to meet a pair of exasperated blue eyes.

"You," Enjolras said slowly "will be the death of me."

He sighed and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the bed. It was one of those uncharacteristically boyish things the otherwise serious and awe-inspiring Apollo did that always managed to catch Grantaire off-guard.

"Okay, why? Why would you think I was angry?"

Grantaire gave him a confused look.

"You just found out I've been lying to you. I never stopped drinking."

Enjolras looked at him sternly from under blond eyebrows and took a deep breath, preparing for a speech. It turned out to be the most incredible speech Grantaire had ever heard from him. Probably the most inspirational too, despite the fact that it was delivered in a rather irritated voice.

"First of all," the young man began, "you haven't exactly been lying. You never said you had stopped. You just came to meetings sober. Second of all, Combeferre is a doctor, you silly man! He noticed you seemed to be taking going without wine a little too well. Although, would you believe it, he wouldn't tell me until I notice he was hiding something and confronted him about it. Much like you, he thought I'd be chewing you if I knew, regardless of all the good you've done recently. Nice to know my friends think I'm a complete sod but I suppose that comes with the job. Either way, we knew you were drinking. We just weren't sure how much and if it was enough to land you in the dumpster with a knife in your back. That's why we got so worried when you didn't show up today. I believe at one point Combeferre wanted to strangle me on our way here because I wouldn't stop repeating that it would be his fault if something had really happened to you. You see, I wanted to talk to you about the matter but he was all for waiting to see if you would decide to quit on your own. Said that if it was me openly pressuring you, it wouldn't really work. Something about the psychology of addiction or some such. Of course, he was right and I apologize for calling him an overanalitical bookworm. Obviously, if you had been drinking, the absinth would be in your stomach and not on the wall. And he's right, you don't look inebriated, you look sick. Which would mean that you haven't drunk anything in quite a while. And I was able to come to that conclusion because our good doctor was also kind enough to explain to me what would happen if you stopped drinking suddenly. Which, you'll be happy to know, made me feel at least a little guilty for all of the sobriety speeches I used to give you. I confess that, judging by his description, I was demanding quite a bit more than I thought. You see, I used to think it was just a simple matter of deciding not to get drunk and sticking to that decision. That was naïve and ignorant of me and, again, I apologize. Now that I know what you're trying to do and considering the fact that it can be dangerous, there is no way I'm leaving you alone. On top of that, you need a change of scenery, preferably to a place that doesn't reek of absinth. Hence the cab which is waiting downstairs to take us to my apartment. There is an extra room with a bed there and since I am not obsessively studious, (don't give me that look, Combeferre, it's not an insult), I can afford to skip a day or two of lectures. So there. I hope that clarifies why I am not, in fact, angry at you and I would really like you to close your mouth, get up, get your coat and get into that cab while you can still walk. And, honestly, I'm starting to get offended by everyone acting so surprised when I do anything remotely human…"


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N:** Believe it or not, I tried to keep some semblance of normalcy here and not have my poor characters engage in imbecilic tearful conversations along the lines of:

'Oh, Grantaire!'

'Oh, Enjolras!'

'Oh, Grantaire!'

'Oh, Enjolras!'

Even so, there's enough fluff here to suffocate you, so be warned. I hope it's not so much that it makes you gag. And once again, yes, alcohol withdrawal sucks and actually, Grantaire has it relatively easy here. There's worse.

_1831, the universe Grantaire accepts for real_

Enjolras' speech had had an almost magical healing influence on Grantaire's rather beaten-down sense of self worth. He had even suddenly remembered he had some dignity (if only he could find where he had put it) and he had refused to go anywhere in the state he was in. Enjolras rolled his eyes but it was evident he was glad to see the man make an effort to pull himself together. The cab driver was told to go and come back in an hour. Meanwhile, the two students waited patiently as Grantaire took a bath and got dressed in something more acceptable than his clothes from two days ago.

When they finally set off, he looked almost normal. Enjolras, sitting on the opposite seat, stole glances at him with a peculiar little tight-lipped smile that looked almost pained. Halfway through the ride, after they had dropped Combeferre at his lodgings, Grantaire could no longer resist asking what he was thinking.

"I am trying to figure out what I did wrong," Enjolras said in reply.

"Why in the Devil's name would you think you did something wrong?"

"We've known each other for years. I thought I had done everything that could be expected of me to try and make you a more useful part of society. But evidently, I overlooked something."

Grantaire barely flinched at the 'more useful part of society' line. This was Enjolras after all. You could not count on him to be nice all the time.

The student gave him an appraising look.

"And now you seem to have gotten a grip on yourself, which proves to me that it was possible all along. I'm certain there must have been ways to trigger this change in you earlier. Better ways than the ones I was using, apparently. It strikes me that I don't understand or, perhaps, care about my men as I should. Combeferre knows me best and even he doubted my ability to show any understanding towards you. I wonder if there's real ground for his fears. It's an alarming discovery to make about one's own nature when one is trying to be a good leader."

"A good leader, Enjolras… is not always the same as a good friend," Grantaire said. "Forgive me, I don't mean it as criticism. But it is hard to seek sympathy or reassurance from you when one has to stand in line with all of France for your attention. You said it yourself, it comes with the job. But you are a good leader."

"You are so convinced."

Grantaire laughed.

"But that's something that's easy for everyone to see!"

Blond eyebrows furrowed in thought.

"Hm. I have heard you say that you believed in me. Until recently, I thought that meant nothing but… I realize now that at certain times in life one does need someone else to believe in them. That's what you wanted from me, wasn't it?"

Grantaire purposefully looked through the window but nodded.

"I'm sorry," Enjolras said.

"For what? I had no right to demand it. You had no reason to believe in me, Apollo. I let you down time and again."

"That you did. But do you know why I kept giving you chances to let me down? I watched you and saw all that potential that was never realized. It drove me mad but I never told you why. I should have. Because, you see, that's the thing – I did believe. That's why I let you stay with us all this time. I couldn't get rid of the hope that you would one day see the man you could be and become that man. I should have tried to explain this to you."

"I don't know if it would have worked. I still… I still don't know if this will work, Enjolras. I don't want to lie to you. I am not sure I can be the man you imagine. So don't feel sorry for not handing encouragements left and right in the past. It most probably would have been futile."

"I should have tried anyway. But it's not too late for it now, is it? So here it goes: I do believe in you, Grantaire."

Grantaire stared resolutely at his knees and blinked quickly.

"I wish you wouldn't do this to me," he muttered. "It's embarrassing."

Enjolras' laughter, such a rare thing to be heard, was surprisingly soft.

"You will do just fine."

Of course, this was easier said than done.

The environment did help. The room he was kindly invited to was nothing luxurious but it was clean and neat and lacked the smell of spilt drink. In addition, it had acquired an air of _A Room in Which a Life of Purpose Is Being Led_ just by being associated with Enjolras. Even so, shortly after they arrived at the place, the magic that had kept any withdrawal symptoms to a minimum for the past two hours dissipated and Grantaire's body insisted on reminding him that Enjolras' words, however dizzy they made him feel, were not actual alcohol.

And then it was a night from hell.

Initially, Grantaire's intention had been to get through it as quietly as he could, without getting his host involved at all.

It didn't work out like that.

Once or twice it got to the point where Enjolras had to physically keep him pinned to the bed and talk non-stop to prevent him from running off to get a bottle of absinth. Because wine was out of the question now – it was too mild. He needed something stronger to compensate for the long abstinence. And if he hadn't had a young revolutionary practically on top of him for part of the night, he didn't know to what lengths he would have gone to get it. Fortunately, if there was a creature more powerful than the Green Fairy, it was Apollo. While Grantaire, despite hating himself for it, was more than once reduced to a shivering, sobbing wreck, either begging to be let go or desperately apologizing for causing so much trouble, Enjolras took it all calmly, kept a hand on his shoulder to push him down when he tried to get up and talked nonsense about the new play they had been intending to see at the theatre and Joly's constant colds and Combeferre's obsessing over some paper. Some small part of Grantaire's mind not preoccupied with feeling awful noted that it was actually something of a novelty to hear their fearless leader say more than two sentences of such trivial things.

He didn't know when he had managed to fall asleep. He was woken by the sensation of something being pressed to his forehead. The back of a hand. Presumably to check his temperature. He had had a bit of a fever last night although it had felt like the least of his problems. The hand slid away in a motion that was not quite a caress but close enough for his heart to beat a little faster for a few seconds. He opened his eyes.

"Ah, good, you're awake," Enjolras observed in a brisk, business-like manner and a little too loudly. "Sorry," he apologized quickly upon seeing Grantaire wince at the volume. "I was just about to wake you anyway. You really need to eat something. I'll just go and bring…"

Before the sentence was even finished, Grantaire was already getting up.

"Enjolras, please, for the love of God, I have had enough humiliation last night to last me a lifetime, I am not eating in bed! If you allow me to use your bathroom and give me some time to start looking like a human, we can have breakfast like normal people."

"Lunch," Enjolras corrected. "Late lunch. It's two in the afternoon. And fine then, as you wish. But I will have you know that there is nothing humiliating about keeping oneself from succumbing to drunkenness."

"_You_ kept me from succumbing to drunkenness. _I_ merely kept you awake all night."

"You're impossible."

"Apologies. I'm less fun when I'm not drunk."

"Nonsense. I maintain that you are just cranky because you have not eaten. There's a definite connection. For example, Combeferre tells me that most of the fights Bahorel gets into are a direct result of his empty stomach."

That actually caused Grantaire to smile.

"Impossible! Bahorel is a man of reasonably good means. I cannot believe he goes hungry that often!"

"Then I will have to reassert my claim that Combeferre is an overanalytical bookworm," Enjolras concluded and left for the kitchen.

Grantaire chuckled and stared after him for a few moments. Childish bickering between friends. Whatever had happened to the fearsome Apollo? Oh, he was still there, it was clear, but…

"What have you gotten yourself into, Grantaire?" he muttered under his breath.

Apparently, what he had gotten himself into was a pile of raspberries. Enjolras had produced them from somewhere when his guest had declared he did not think he was able to stomach anything at the moment.

"I can only hope the trick will work on you too. That's what my mother used to bring me when I did not feel well as a boy," Enjolras explained. "See, I would refuse to eat absolutely anything else if raspberries were in season. I was a stubborn child."

"I would have never guessed."

"Mock me all you want after you eat."

There really must have been something special about those raspberries because, after a few, Grantaire stopped wanting to stay away from any sort of food, realized that he was actually starving and they eventually moved on to real lunch. Conversation seemed to go easy enough that he stopped paying too much attention to what he was saying and ended up accidentally addressing Enjolras by his first name for the second time in his life. The student stopped with a fork halfway to his mouth and Grantaire half-expected to be scolded. Apollo/Enjolras/Adrien/ whoever he really was to him now gave him an incredulous stare.

"You know, R, I can't believe this but I don't think I actually know your Christian name at all. Could I have really forgotten it?"

Grantaire shook his head and laughed a little.

"I've never told it to you and I'm not sure Courfeyrac or any of the others know it either."

"Why?"

"Because even cynics can't stand this much irony."

"I can't imagine what you mean. Now you have to tell me."

"How is your Greek, Monsieur Enjolras?"

"Reasonably good. Why?"

"Nicolas Philemon Grantaire, pleased to meet you."

Enjolras stared at him blankly for a second and then realization hit.

"Oh," the student said. "Oh, dear. Nicolas. 'Victory of the people'? Who would have thought…"

He grinned. Grantaire shook his head.

"Like I said, too much irony even for me. And don't even get me started on 'Philemon'."

Enjolras looked like he didn't know whether to laugh but then a devious little smile crept on his lips.

"Who knows? Maybe you'll live up to it."

And, against all odds, he did. When the Amis finally got their Republic, Grantaire had been one of the instruments to bring it about.

_Paris, 1832, the universe Grantaire is trying to change_

The morning light filtered through the window. The birds chirped, oblivious to poverty, cholera, broken hearts and upcoming rebellions. It was just a beautiful July morning to them.

Enjolras was shrugging his coat on.

"It's a good story, Grantaire but unfortunately it didn't happen like that. Who knows, maybe I really could have used your help if you had offered it. Maybe after we win… Either way, the time has come. France cannot wait a day longer."

"Then let me come with you!"

"I can't. You don't believe in our victory and I cannot have anyone who doesn't believe join our ranks. You will just dampen everyone's enthusiasm. Besides, I don't know what to expect of you. You come to my apartment, you beg me not to go to the barricades, you cut yourself with a knife, you tell me fairytales… I can imagine to some extent what might have brought you here but it's too late for this. Maybe we could talk again when this is over."

And with that, he was out the door.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: **This is officially the fluffiest, most flashbaking fic in the fandom, if not on the net. But it's the last flashback, as it leads to the moment Grantaire wished hadn't happened.

_1832, the universe Grantaire is trying to change_

There is always something to be done. Isn't that what Enjolras had taught him?

As long as you breathe, there is always one more thing you can do. And it just might make a difference. A choice, a solution, an action. Because life is action. As long as you are doing something, as long as you are thinking of a plan, you are not dead yet. And sometimes it hurts, but if you learn to recognize the kind of pain you are feeling, you will know when it means you are accomplishing something. Sometimes pain is only a side effect of the world that is and the world that should be colliding.

Patience. Patience. It will feel like ages but you have to keep going. Ignore the pain, you know it won't kill you. This is important. This is something you must do. For you, for someone else… Don't let yourself think it will be futile.

The piece of glass was cutting into his hand more than it was cutting into the bonds but he persisted. He couldn't sit and wait for someone to show up and set him free as Enjolras had promised. He could hear the noise of the uprising already. Gunshots were ringing on the streets. And what of the others? His heart clenched as he imagined each of his friends dead. Whatever he did now, he couldn't save them all. For all he knew, it could be too late for any of them. Enjolras could be one of the first shot.

No. He banished the thought. Not Enjolras. He was too smart, too good to go down so quickly.

Grantaire remembered the uprising. It had been the greatest trial for their relationship. At the time, Enjolras had already been convinced that France was not ready. As a strange paradox, the most determined revolutionary of all and his fateful lieutenants had been going around doing their best to calm the spirits and convince more people to wait, not to throw their lives away in a fight that was destined to be lost. They had had some success but at a great price. They had felt they were betraying their own – those who _had_ gathered on the streets and had been systematically slaughtered. To stay at home and listen to the sounds of the battles had been crucifying.

Finally, Enjolras had not been able to stand it. The young leader had been completely out of his mind when Grantaire had come banging on his door, led by some morbid premonition. He had let him in reluctantly. It was evident the student had been preparing to go outside. He had shoved some papers in Grantaire's hands and said they were instructions to Combeferre in case anything happened to him. At first Grantaire had been too shocked to even react. Then he had tried to reason with the boy. It had lead to nothing - Enjolras had declared he understood the logic but was unable to follow it. Before he knew it, h_is_ Adrien, his friend, the person he loved above anyone else, had been almost out the door, about to enter a world of flying bullets. Grantaire had lost any semblance of patience. He had yanked him back into the room and threatened to tie him up. Enjolras, of course, had resisted. There had been a struggle and in the end Grantaire had done something unthinkable. He had slapped none other than Apollo across the face, slammed him against the wall and bellowed 'Don't you dare move! You will come to your senses _right now_! Because I am not letting you go out there! Do you hear me, Adrien? You are not leaving this room until there is not a single National Guardsman to be found on the streets of Paris!'

Enjolras had frozen in place. The sudden silence had stretched between them with only Grantaire breathing heavily from the fight and from the shock of what he had just done. For what seemed like hours, he had stared almost unblinkingly into the blue depths, as if looking away would have caused the other man to disappear.

Then Enjolras had slowly extricated his arms from his captor's now weakened grip, wrapped them around his neck instead and kissed him on the lips lightly, tenderly. Grantaire had stood there, thunderstruck and unsure what was going on, until Enjolras had finally spoken.

"It's funny. Finally I understand what the fuss is all about with love and everything. It has little to do with what Courfeyrac and Jehan and even Marius make of it. No one in my life has ever cared enough to do what you just did. No one in your life had ever cared enough to make you stop drinking. And everyone needs at least one person to shout at them for their own good, am I right? I think now I can safely say that I love you, Nicolas. And I will do everything in my power to never leave you, if you promise to do the same."

And that had been it. They were together. By need, by choice and perhaps, as Jehan would say, by destiny. How could he have ever wished to give up that moment? Enjolras would probably have died that day if not for him! Grantaire had known that when he had stated his wish, and yet he hadn't _really_ known it. He had been certain that things would have worked themselves out without him in the picture. He had been unable to truly believe that _anything_ was really because of him.

Now, for the first time, there was not a doubt in his heart that they both needed each other. Enjolras had needed him then and he still did.

The hours that had followed that confession of love had been hard, as hard as the night of Grantaire's withdrawal. But the roles had been reversed this time. He had stroked the blond head on his shoulder for hours, talking about the Republic – the real one that they would be able to build when the time came. Oddly, the words had come without being forced.

In the end, they had survived another horrible night and emerged from it on equal ground this time. Debts had been paid, edges softened, positions brought closer together. And with a little patience and persistence…

The bonds finally gave way completely and Grantaire breathed a small sigh of relief as he freed his hands of the remnants of the rope. He dropped the bloody glass-piece from the broken window, took a breath to compose himself and bolted out of the apartment.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N:** And here I am again, sorry for the wait but I have had a week from hell and all subsequent ones promise to be no better. I wish, oh I wish so much that I could only study and worry about university projects instead of always freaking out about the rent. Fortunately, fanfiction is the best cure for reality :)Anyway…

In this chapter we leave Grantaire's side for the first time and follow Enjolras instead. Hang on people because this is nearly at an end.

_1832, the universe__ Grantaire is trying to change_

It was almost night now.

Enjolras sat on a pile of paving stones and contemplated the gun in his hands.

Bahorel was dead and so was Jehan Prouvaire. Two of his friends already fallen. And many other good men as well.

When it had been discovered that Prouvaire was a prisoner, they had been willing to exchange the spy Javert for him. Enjolras had wanted him back with all his heart. At this moment, strategically unwise as it would have been, he would have offered himself just as easily if they had not had Javert. Combeferre had managed to convey their offer to their enemies without being shot himself… only to be answered that the revolutionary that had been captured was already dead.

Enjolras had remained stoic upon learning this news but his heart had trembled. Those words, those damned words Grantaire had spoken to him the previous night, had come back to haunt him. Now that it was quiet, he couldn't even try to silence them. Those tales that hinted at a brighter future, even if they were tinged with Grantaire's own bitterness. Those tales that told of them winning, surviving.

Well, they were losing now and they were all going to die. And while he did not fear for himself, the thought of seeing the bright youthful faces of Combeferre, Joly, Bossuet, Courfeyrac, still alive now, pale and lifeless was terrible.

_All of those boys you are going to lead into battle tomorrow, don't they matter to you as individuals? _

_Beautiful things are too precious and rare to let die, Enjolras._

Yes but Prouvaire was dead. Nothing could change that.

_What could possibly be more tragic than taking the life from someone who loves it so much?_

Yes, tragic. Bahorel's death and the death of all that would follow. Even the death of the men they were fighting against. There had been young boys among them too. Maybe some of them had loved life just as much as his friend.

_And you… You, Adrien, you… If you go to that barricade tomorrow, you will never become the man you were meant to be. A man who sees further than tomorrow__. Someone who can live as a hero rather than just die as one. Someone who can really build a republic rather than just start a revolution. _

"I am sorry, mes amis," he whispered to the pavement. "I am not that man. And forgive me, Grantaire, for disappointing you. That is the trouble when you believe in people rather than ideals. Ideals are immortal and they never disappoint. But you will live and for that I am glad…"

Almost twenty-four hours had passed since last night's meeting. It felt like a lifetime. He recalled the excitement, the hope, the conviction that there was a world of possibilities before them.

Now there was only one possibility and it was death.

His morbid thoughts were interrupted by sudden shouts coming from a little far off down the street. He glanced up and froze. He had never in his life hallucinated but now he blinked a few times to make sure what he was seeing was not an apparition.

There stood Grantaire, visibly exhausted and covered in blood. He was leaning heavily on the shoulder of none other than Jehan Prouvaire.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N:** Almost there.

_1832, the universe Grantaire is trying to change_

"Combeferre! Hurry up, he's shot!"

Jehan's voice carried over the gathered revolutionaries who had enclosed the two new arrivals into a small but thick circle. Enjolras was still blinking in bewilderment when Combeferre ran past him. Shaking himself, the blond jumped up and followed him. The circle parted to let them both through and he found himself standing in front of Jehan. Combeferre was already kneeling over Grantaire who had collapsed almost immediately upon arrival. Enjolras didn't know whom to stare at first but with the doctor practically blocking his view of the drunkard, he fixed his eyes on his unexpectedly resurrected comrade.

"Thank God, Prouvaire, we thought you were…"

The poet nodded grimly.

"God and Grantaire both. He let me loose while they were distracted by one of your attacks. They were preparing to shoot me."

"They said they had!"

"My guess would be that they didn't want to let you know they had allowed a prisoner to escape. It would have boosted your morale."

"And you say that Grantaire… What was he even doing there?"

"Trying to get to you. They shot him a couple of times while we were getting away from the troops. I wanted to take him somewhere safe but he insisted on coming with me to look for a way back here. And then I thought, no doctor would treat a revolutionary anyway, and they would guess where we had come from. So I decided our best shot was getting to Combeferre."

"How did you manage to reach us? There are guards everywhere, as far as I know."

"The sewers. And, trust me, it wasn't pleasant. Especially with Grantaire in this state. He was walking on his own for a while but he's been getting worse. He's loosing a lot of blood."

Enjolras glanced sideways to where Combeferre and Grantaire were. Combeferre caught his eyes and the leader didn't like what he saw on the doctor's face.

"Let's get him to the ambulatory," Enjolras said quietly and moved to execute his own order.

"Hello, Apollo," Grantaire muttered when they picked him up. "I got our little poet back where he belongs."

"Yes. Thank you."

"Got myself where I belong too."

"Wounded, on a table in a makeshift ambulatory?"

Grantaire chuckled a bit.

"By your side, fearless leader. And since you mention it, not much point in crowding the ambulatory. If it's not too much trouble, how about upstairs instead?"

Enjolras said nothing but nodded to the others.

As soon as they placed their load on a table Combeferre shuffled the rest of the boys out of the room. Jehan was the last to depart, letting go of Grantaire's hand reluctantly and whispering 'I'll see you' as he went out. To Enjolras' surprise, Combeferre moved to leave as well. The leader caught up with him just out of the door, grabbing his sleeve and giving him a questioning look. Combeferre sighed.

"He's lost too much blood Enjolras and the wounds are serious. I would just be slowing things down if I intervened."

"I guessed that much… But won't you at least… I don't know, give him something? Stay with him for a moment?"

"That's what I was going to leave you there for. There's very little I can do."

"But if there is little you can do, there is nothing I can do."

"That's not true and you know it. He wants you."

"But what am I supposed to… God, Combeferre, you know you are much better at this than I am! And the men need me."

"The men will manage. And talking to a friend is not a matter of skill."

Enjolras gave him an almost imploring look but finally nodded and returned to the room. Grantaire opened his eyes when he heard him approach.

"Do… Do you need anything?" the student inquired a bit awkwardly.

A small smile and a shake.

"Shouldn't you be outside?" Grantaire asked softly.

"No. Not right now." He stepped closer and sat on the edge of the table. "Why? Why did you do this? You don't think what we're doing here matters, so why?"

"I think Prouvaire's life does. And all of yours. You can still get out of here. Jehan can show you the way through the sewers. If you give them the order, they will follow you. They won't think it's cowardice if you say it isn't. And it isn't!"

Enjolras shook his head.

"You know I can't. If that's what you came here for, you shouldn't have. You must have known it was futile to try and convince me to leave the barricade. And you shouldn't have risked your life helping us. Prouvaire…" he paused to take a breath and exhale. When he spoke again his voice was choked. "Prouvaire, as much as I love him, will likely die in a matter of hours anyway. I'm afraid it's inevitable. But if we all die, let it be in an attempt to save our country."

Grantaire was looking at him with half a smile on his unnaturally pale lips. Not really cynical this time, more ironic.

"Then if I die," he said slowly, "let it be in an attempt to save my friends. And my not-so-cold marble statue."

Enjolras met his eyes again, suddenly comprehending, suddenly recognizing that same mixture of courage, passion and devotion that he sought for and admired in his comrades. With this man, he simply hadn't been looking in the right place.

As if reading his mind, Grantaire nodded.

"You are my France," he said simply. "You and them. And I know that everything you have, you will give to the People, but not this. This is all yours. This heart, this mind, this man, such as he is, belongs to you and you can't give that away. And… Stop crying now, Adrien, it's completely misplaced. What life would I have anyway without my friends? Don't wish that upon me."

Enjolras wiped his cheek angrily.

"You're insufferable!"

Someone outside called Enjolras' name. The blond's eyes darted to the door but he stayed where he was. Grantaire nudged his hand gently.

"Go on. I've said what I needed to say."

Enjolras got off the table but stopped again, uncertain. He bent down and pressed a kiss to the other man's forehead.

"I'll be back."

"I can't promise I'll still be here when you are. Have an appointment to keep, you see, with a fair lady dressed in black."

"Tell her to wait."

"She's not the patient kind, I'm sure you know. But that's all right. We've said our goodbyes."

"Mine wasn't a proper one."

"What would be a proper one?"

Enjolras bent down again and kissed him on the lips this time.

_I love yo__u._

Quieter than a whisper. Enjolras himself wasn't entirely sure he had said it.

When he moved away, Grantaire was looking at him with a smile so precisely balanced between happiness and sadness that he didn't know what to make of it.

"I wish you had done that about seventeen minutes ago," Grantaire said.

**A/N:** Ehem. Terribly sorry about that.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N:** 3 a.m. I should really be doing something totally different. Like either sleeping or writing an essay. Oh, well.

_Grantaire and Enjolras' garden, 1836_

"So what would you change then?"

Enjolras shrugged and watched with mild amusement as darkish lips formed a pout worthy of a society lady. The gypsy girl sitting on a bench in their garden was strangely endearing. A perfect specimen of a street kid.

She reminded him of Gavroche whom he hadn't seen in a while. Of course, Gavroche was no really a street kid anymore. Monseur Valjean was putting a herculean effort into turning him into a proper young man. Enjolras had to admit that living under one roof was doing a lot of good for both the old man and the child.

All around him things had changed for the better. But despite himself, Enjolras felt just a little nostalgic. Where were those days when Gavroche would show up unannounced to entertain them all with his songs and comments? Maybe that was why he had stopped to talk to the girl at all. And, really, she was herself quite entertaining.

Or maybe, he admitted to himself grudgingly, talking about what bothered him with a stranger was just easier. He had gone out without a clear idea of where he wanted to go and a brief walk around the streets had brought him back home. But he didn't want to enter. He didn't know how to say what he wanted to the person he wanted to say it to. He was good at speeches. Talks – not so much.

He turned his attention back to the girl.

"A shrug is not an answer, Monseur!" she was admonishing him. "Be serious now! Your friend was more serious with me when I spoke to him almost twenty minutes ago."

"You spoke to Grantaire?"

Of course. Everyone speaks to Grantaire. The housekeeper. The servant. Your friends. Even strange children neither of you has seen before. Just not you.

"Unlike you, he answered my question," she said, crossing her arms. "Here I am, offering you the opportunity of a lifetime and you aren't making an effort to participate properly. Now, what would you like to change in your past?"

Enjolras' smile twisted a little, acquiring a slightly bitter curve. Should he tell her? What could it hurt? He sighed.

"Do you know I made this happen to him? He didn't want to be part of any revolution. He only did it because of me. I thought challenging him was a good thing but… I always asked too much and, in the end, he never once failed to comply with what I wanted. I got my republic and he got… This. I should really put that into my next speech, if I ever give one again. 'Follow Enjolras, listen to what he says and you will end up paralyzed.' Because who needs legs when you can fly on the wings of Liberty, isn't that so? The others… They followed me by choice. I didn't push them into it. With him… I shouldn't have allowed us to become involved like this. You want to know what I wish for? I wish I could go back and keep my distance this time. I wish I could forget how much he means to me and just leave him be. It would have been so much better."

The girl was now sporting a devious smile.

"Oh, is that what you wish? Then how about this – you get to go to a past where you two are not together. You won't know a thing about this life. But if you don't somehow manage to remember within twenty-four hours, there will be no going back. And I get your house. How does that sound?"

Enjolras laughed.

"Sounds like a cunning deal on your part."

"Close your eyes."

He didn't know why he did it. It wasn't like he was expecting anything to happen. He was just going along with the game, nothing more.

Enjolras closed his eyes.

_The Barricade, 1832_

"_I wish you had done that about seventeen minutes ago."_

Enjolras looked up at the clock on the wall and frowned.

"But… No, I still have at least one mi..."

Suddenly he froze, eyes widening and fixing on the neat circle of digits. Someone downstairs called his name again but he didn't seem to hear. He watched the clock as if in a trance as seconds ticked by.

"Adrien?" came weakly from beside him.

"Oh, God… I remember," Enjolras whispered just before his minute flowed into the next.

**A/N:** This fic is starting to resemble the movie Inception in how complicated it is. Not only does it have flashbacks about the past inside other flashbacks about the future but now it also has a magical contract taking place within another magical contract.


	19. Chapter 19

Something wet fell on his cheek and Enjolras' first thought was of tears. He felt so scared and so horribly, devastatingly sad that it only seemed appropriate. But he was standing upright so there was no way anyone's tears could fall on his face, was there? Unless they were his own.

His eyes were closed. He didn't remember closing them but now he didn't want to open them again because… Because he wasn't sure if he had been on time. And if he looked down to see Grantaire lying there, dying…

Another droplet hit his face. And another. The air around him filled with susurrus. He allowed himself to breathe and his lungs filled with the smell of grass and wet dust. He opened his eyes.

He was back in the garden with the familiar rose bushes and the paved path and the bench. The rain – because it was only rain and not tears or blood or anything horrible – was gathering strength fast, plastering loose strands of hair to his face. Within seconds his shirt was soaked and clinging to him. He started up the path slowly, wanting to reach the house, go up the stairs and open the door to the bedroom but also afraid of what he might not find.

What if something bad had happened after all? What if he was back but Grantaire wasn't? Or what if the whole thing had been some strange prophetic dream and he was going to enter the room and find Grantaire dead from a heart attack or something similar? Although, what man of thirty-five dies of a heart attack just like that?

Still, he walked slowly. Into the house and up the stairs, cursing himself a million times for being a bastard and setting up the bedroom on the second floor only because he thought it would be additional motivation for Grantaire to get out of the bloody chair. Irrelevant, it was all irrelevant…

He was at the door. There was nothing for it now. He took a breath and opened it and…

_Thank you. Oh, thank you, thank you a million times. __Thank God and the Virgin Mary and Robespierre and whoever else might be watching over us!_

Grantaire was sitting by the window at his usual place. He must have been looking at the door, because as soon as Enjolras had opened it, their eyes had met. There was something odd in the cynic's expression that the blond couldn't immediately place. It worried him. He stepped into the room almost timidly.

There was a cup of tea in the other man's lap and another one sitting on the desk. Enjolras glanced at the second cup guiltily.

"Am I too late for tea?"

His voice sounded strange but then again, so did Grantaire's when he answered.

"Only if you mind drinking it cold… Shouldn't you change first?"

Enjolras blinked for a moment before remembering his wet shirt and vest. He pulled at them irritably. They were, just like everything else at the moment, completely unimportant.

"It's raining outside," he supplied unnecessarily. It was quite evident both from the view out the window and from his soaked state that it was raining. Grantaire nodded anyway.

"Yes. Finally. I thought it never would."

Enjolras started undressing thinking how strange it was to talk about the weather after they had both just been about to die. But, of course, that hadn't been real, had it? Damn, he would much rather have preferred to ask Grantaire to take his own shirt off so he could see for himself there were no bleeding bullet wounds there. But that would warrant too much explaining, wouldn't it? Unless…

"Why is the second cup half full?" he asked over his shoulder.

"I… had a guest," Grantaire answered in that same odd voice. There was something like uncertainty in it.

"What guest?"

"Well, a young lady. Darkish looking. Very interesting character. You… wouldn't happen to have seen her leaving here would you?"

There was a pause.

She was real, Enjolras thought. I didn't imagine her. Either that or we're both crazy and Grantaire has been having tea with our common hallucination.

"Where did she take you?" he asked quietly, turning around.

_Was it really you there just now at the barricade? Are we both acting so strange because we are not sure the other one remembers?_

Grantaire looked up at him and it was suddenly completely clear. This was the same man Enjolras had been saying goodbye to mere minutes ago in the back room of the Café Musain. His fingers, suddenly numb, fell from the buttons of his shirt and he sank to the bed.

"Same place she took you," Grantaire answered – unnecessarily now. "I… I thought you would be better off without me. You were forced to keep me company the whole time and you didn't join the Council and you weren't happy so I thought…"

Enjolras shook his head, still unable to move from his spot on the bed. Their position was strangely similar to how they had been sitting in his student apartment only… Yesterday night? Was it yesterday night or four years ago or some moment outside of time? And what the hell did it matter? The important thing was… the really important thing was…

"I swear, I never thought you would all go to that barricade!" Grantaire continued in an urgent voice when his companion didn't say anything. "God, Adrien, I'm so sorry, I…"

The sentence was left unfinished because Enjolras had shot from the bed and was already kissing him, balancing one knee on the edge of the chair.

It felt both strange and familiar. He knew he had done it only minutes ago at the barricade but he also remembered he hadn't done it in a very, very long time in this world.

"I put you in danger," Grantaire muttered into his neck.

"I put myself in it. I always do. Any time, anywhere. And all you ever do is try to keep me safe. And it appears you've been doing a fine job of it. So many battles and there's hardly a mark on me. And instead of doing the same for you, I always let you get injured."

"If you hadn't broken the spell, I would be dead right now."

"If you hadn't made me remember we would both be dead. We're lucky. I don't know whether I should want to take my revenge on that little witch or thank her. I can't decide."

"It's a tough call," Grantaire agreed, finally smiling. There was a pause in which the smile was replaced with a more serious expression. "Adrien… I will try. For real."

"Try what?"

"Walking. I'll really try this time."

Enjolras sighed and shook his head.

"Don't do it for my sake. God, I don't want to be the bad guy again! I don't mind staying home that much, honestly, I don't! I just thought you might be happier if you were doing something about it. And I ended up pushing you again… I still think… But if you don't want to do it, you don't want to do it. Maybe I'm wrong. You said you didn't feel your legs at all, so…"

"I lied a little bit about that."

There was a pause.

"You what?"

Enjolras slid down from the chair to kneel on the ground and grasp his hands, fixing him with an intense stare.

"You said you felt nothing!"

"Well… It's not exactly nothing, it's just…"

"It's just what, God damn it, Nicolas? It's just what?" He closed his eyes and breathed in and out before opening them again. "Sorry. Sorry. I didn't mean to snap. I just wish… You never tell me anything anymore…"

"I wanted to tell you. But I was afraid it might make you even more determined to get me on my feet. And it's not like I can just get up and walk. It hurts to even move. I can't imagine standing. And I know Combeferre would say any feeling is a good sign but it still doesn't mean I'll get any better. I didn't want you to hope because I didn't want to disappoint you. And… Well, I knew you would make me do it and I really didn't fancy the idea too much… But I _know_ it would have been for my own good, it always is when you say so, and I should have listened to you rather than staying glued to the bloody window feeling sorry for myself. Adrien? Oh, for God's sake, what are the tears for now?"

Enjolras wiped his eyes angrily but rather ineffectively with his already wet sleeve.

"How the hell do you expect me to react? I just saw you _dying_! And there was nothing I could do. And now you're telling me that you are afraid to talk to me because I might torture you into doing something painful that you don't want to do just because _I_ think it's necessary. Damn, Nicolas, you chose a real bastard to spend your life with."

Grantaire burst out laughing and stroked the blond head which had nestled sulkily in his lap.

"Oh, Adrien… But it's your job to push me to do things! Didn't you learn anything from what we just went through? We need each other. Such as we are."

"I love you…"

"I know. I know. You should really take that shirt off."

Enjolras chuckled.

**Author's Note:** Next to last chance to review!


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Note:** Believe it or not it's finally over. Gosh, I never expected this to be so long! It was just some random plot bunny. And instead of hopping away at the end of this story, the bunny brought some friends. So you are now kindly invited to my new series titled "Revolutions, Great and Small" which features a whole lot of people. The first chapter is up now.

_**Epilogue**_

_Life is action. As long as you are doing something, you are not dead yet. And sometimes it hurts, but if you learn to recognize the kind of pain you are feeling, you will know when it means you are accomplishing something. Because sometimes pain is what you get when the way the world is collides with the way it should be. _

Two steps. Maybe two and a half. And only because both Combeferre and Joly were struggling to keep him upright. Still, it was a lot.

He refused to let Enjolras have anything to do with this. Some things you have to do on your own or at least without a concerned lover around. But that didn't mean he didn't hear him in his head the whole time. More than that. He heard him in his own voice.

_Patience. Patience. It will feel like ages but you hav__e to keep going. Ignore the pain – you know it won't kill you. This is important. Don't let yourself think it will be futile. In the end you will see it's worth it. In the end you will see you're worth it._


End file.
